


An open letter to Hank Moody

by Violetta_Valery



Category: Californication (TV), David Duchovny - Fandom
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Flirting, Hotel Bar, Hotel Sex, Intellectual Foreplay, Letters, Love Letters, Middle-age Crisis, One Night Stands, opera reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29522001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetta_Valery/pseuds/Violetta_Valery
Summary: Summary: it is what the title says.Timeline: season 4 of “Californication”.Disclaimers: goes without saying, “Californication” characters are not mine. English is not my mother language, so excuse any grammar errors or unimaginative vocabulary. And of course, have fun!Don’t be shy, leave your feedback! Ideas and requests for upcoming stories are most welcome!
Relationships: Hank Moody/Other(s)
Kudos: 1





	An open letter to Hank Moody

*****

Hank Moody, writer:

This is an open letter to you.

You probably won’t remember me. We met a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve known you forever. I’m looking at a first edition of “South of Heaven” as I type these words, laid on my desk for as long as I can remember. The cover’s a bit torn, the pages smeared with coffee, wine, lipstick that transferred from my lips to my fingers. From the first contact I had with your writing, a gift from a girlfriend on the first year of college, I was in love with you… for a young woman coming of age at that time, you represented what I wanted in life: recklessness, adventure, rawness, sensuality, danger. The girlfriend and I spent countless nights in bed reading together, and she’d be definitely pleased with the effect your words and persona had on me; I’d go down on her as if I’d go down in history for such moments of pleasure – they were grand, 1950’s MGM musical-grand, as coming of age sex should be. When the first year of college was gone, the girlfriend did too, and your book stayed. From our bed, it went to the work desk on my first shithole apartment, and I’d revisit you often. “Seasons in the Abyss” and “God Hates Us All” joined throughout the years. I hated the movie, by the way. That pasteurized parody felt like anything but you.

I no longer live in a shithole apartment. Leaving college, I went to work with art and ended up getting involved with gallery curation, and things turned out just fine; standard society expectations-wise anyway. The old work desk and you followed me to a new, fancy loft in Brooklyn, and new, fancy boyfriends and girlfriends came and went. Grand cinema sex turned to sitcom-shitcom sex as years went by, and the only place I could find the remnants of my former self was in the pages of your books. I guess you will agree with me that aging can bring an unfathomable amount of boredom and mediocrity to life; it comes with the fucking “responsibility of being an adult”, and is a pretty shitty pain in the ass to try to equalize it with a more flamboyant and carefree attitude towards life. 

So I was in that moment in life when I was asked to travel to LA, to check on a new artist for the gallery. Feeling like a responsible and bored and mediocre adult. I arrived at that decadent city, checked-in in a not-too-fancy hotel for two nights, and after a shower went to the lobby bar for a much necessary drink. The whisky glass was halfway into my lips when I caught you staring at me with droopy drunk eyes. It was you. And it was your words spilling out of your mouth, directed at me. I could hardly believe; I was no longer the young woman that once would have gotten your attention, but somehow I did. Me, the average middle-aged soft-boobed single woman. What are the chances an unremarkable woman has to be of any interest to a remarkable man?

Of course I’d never tell you I knew who you were. Instead, I played along; some part of that young me was stirred inside, in a way trying to emerge back to breathe. I could tell you were already in your third or forth drink, but we engaged in a much eloquent literary conversation anyway. Tennessee Williams, Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin. You paid me a second whisky, I slipped you my spare key. Not ten minutes after I was in my room you knocked on the door and knocked me senseless. We shared scotch-tasted kisses, rough hair tugs, grab marks and angry hickeys in each other’s skins. I shared my core, invited you in: your tongue, your fingers, your cock, and you gladly entered. I’d have accepted your heart and soul if you’d said yes. 

I didn’t remember the last time sex had felt like that, maybe because it really had never felt like that… I was expecting a fuck, you made love to me. In your raw, reckless, sensual, adventurous, dangerous way. You worshiped me, soft boobs and all, with the reverence and intent of a person on a spiritual quest, and I abandoned myself to come one, two, three times in your arms. It felt like you loved me. And for a moment I almost believed there was such a thing as love at first sight. 

You spent the night, and when morning came, we were both sober and sated. You didn’t stay for breakfast, but collected your clothes, put the key on the nightstand, kissed my forehead and left. On the following evening I went to the bar again, and there you were, with whom I recognized from a piece of news was your lawyer. I watched you both, the seduction ping-pong entwined in the court conversation, and I watched you take the lift together. At that moment I felt like Donna Elvira, I could carve your heart from your chest with a dagger. And much like Donna Elvira, I trembled with anger and vengeance, but I could not stop the palpitation within, knowing soon you’d receive the verdict from your trial. You were, you are, my own modern, personal Don Giovanni; and my misguided jealousy transmuted into pity. Mozart and Da Ponte would be proud of their characters’ portraits.

Transmuted also was the previous night’s feeling. It didn’t feel like you loved me; maybe at that feeble moment you truly did. And somehow, I loved myself back. Now, two weeks later, I feel no longer average, middle-aged, soft-boobed. You helped that coming of age woman come back home.

As I write these words, I can’t help but to think not all women that shared your bed felt the same, or received the same from you. I’m sorry for this. But I’d rather not think of myself as privileged, or think of you as another bastard womanizer – god, we know how many of them are there… those new, fancy, superficial men, in all lower case letters – but acknowledge that you, as all sensitive people in this mediocre, brutal world we live in, failed, fell, had your downs. I’m grateful that the Hank Moody I had in my bed is not the downfallen one. And I love you for that as well.

With my words and my heart,

xxxxxxx


End file.
